Sons of the mountains of Scotland,Welshmen of coomb and defile,Breed of the moors of England,Children of Erin's green isle,We stand four square to the tempest,Whatever the battering hail-No foe shall gather our harvest,Or sit on our stockyard rail.

So hail-fellow-met we muster,And hail-fellow-met fall in,Wherever the guns may thunder,Or the rocketing air-mail spin!Born of the soil and the whirlwind,Though death itself be the gale-No foe shall gather our harvestOr sit on our stockyard rail.

We are the sons of Australia, of the men who fashioned the land;We are the sons of the womenWho walked with them hand in hand;And we swear by the dead who bore us,By the heroes who blazed the trail,No foe shall gather our harvest,Or sit on our stockyard rail.